Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 15

  ——

  Mon cher Giovanni,

  I am rushed these Days – and Nights as well, but that is quite another story, not one the Gentleman’s Code allows me to share. I have just enough Time to provide you with the Details you asked for. Had I but more Time, I am sure I could have crafted a better, more pithy reply. Since I am pressed, I must send you a letter as it comes to me, written in what an English friend of mine calls a Jumbly Style.

  Thomas puts the quill down and leans back. He stretches out his arms. For just a moment he closes his eyes, hands now behind his head. He really does not want to write this letter to Codignola, yet he must. His correspondence of the outgoing kind is backing up. He understands that if he is to receive letters from others, which he dearly wants, he has to send his own out. It is a give and take, as is pretty much everything in life. The missives from other parts of Europe are practically the only things he looks forward to in the tedium of his hours in the fabric shop and trying to drive nails of French words and phrases into thick English planks.

  Well, that is not quite true. He does look forward to those moments when he spends time with the women in his life. Though of late, only one brings more joy than grief. That is Nature’s gift herself, the musky-smelling Mademoiselle de Vins. She is skittish and Thomas gladly plays along. He especially likes it when she rubs scents previously unknown to him on their bodies before they make love. It is a completely sensuous world, and even though she insists he always wear a French glove, it is a small price to pay.

  La Beaumont, on the other hand, borders on cranky of late. She is so unsettled. It is as if there is something bothering her, yet she does not say it aloud. He figures it must have something to do with his prolonged delay in giving her a firm date for their wedding. He understands how that might grate on her, given that she was once deceived and exploited by her late husband. Thomas vows he will not do that to her. Luckily, his secret liaisons with Monique do no harm in that regard. As long as clandestine they remain.

  Thomas comes back into his writing position. It occurs to him he will give Madame what she wants, a firm date. It will be three months off, no less than that. That will surely be enough time for him to have heard back from France. Should he receive an encouraging word from the magistrate judge, he will have time then to inform Jeanne-Marie that the marriage is off. She will understand. Or maybe she will want to move to Paris with him as his wife. The choice will be hers. Thomas would like to have her in his life for years to come, as long as she is back to her former playful self.

  But none of this rumination is getting his correspondence done, is it now?

  Thomas picks up his quill and gives it a dip.

  The number of Presses and of Publications in this City is beyond belief, at least beyond belief from what I once knew in Paris. There must be 20,000 fresh publications put out each year, counting the Pamphlets as well as the Books. My Sources tell me that is double what it was twenty years ago. What’s more, the number continues to grow. I would be most interested to learn what the situation is in Genoa.

  You asked me, Giovanni, about the remark you heard from an Englishman making the Grand Tour. You stated he used the name of a particular London street to disparage the Entirety of all Writers. I have inquired about this and it seems there is indeed such a place as the name you heard, Grub-Street. It is said to come from an old English word. A grube was a drain or a ditch. Clearly, not a place one would choose to live. Unsightly with Smells.

  Though the term was unknown to me until you wrote of it, I have since heard it twice in Conversations this week. It appears that it is the low-down association with penury that matters, not any particular address on any particular street. Grub-Street refers to those who toil in ignominy and without success.

  We men are simple beasts, are we not? We are so easily swayed by Words, for Better or Worse. I Pity the poor Writers who are Maligned to be of the Grub-Street ilk, as I am sure you do too, Giovanni. They are doing their best at a Profession that is nowhere near as easy as it might appear.

  It is not enough to put the letter in the post, but it is a good start. The Genoan also wanted Thomas’s opinion on where the English draw the line between what is low and what is high literature. That to Thomas seems to be a continuation of the Grub-Street topic. He wishes he knew the answer, but as far as he can see, the line between the two is invisible, or constantly moving. In any case, Thomas will try to have a bit of fun making up something.

  ——

  Jeanne-Marie continues to wonder what is troubling her husband-to-be. The occasional secretiveness. A near irritability when she asks what he has been busy with.

  The explanation that comes quickest to mind is that Monsieur is having some difficulty adapting to the idea of being wed. As so many women like to observe, marriage is a commitment men are sometimes – or is it often – reluctant to make. Though like her, Thomas has been married before, so it should not be a great leap. Besides, he is different from other men, isn’t he? Now, last night, a corner was turned. Last night they agreed on a date. It is a mere three months away. It is the first step in having Thomas commit to her for the rest of his life.

  ——

  Six down and six to go. So much closer than it was, yet still so far away. Six long weeks in which to figure out exactly how much celebration they should put into the day. At least the first big decision is now made: the ceremony will take place in a Catholic church with a Catholic priest. Reluctantly, but eventually, Thomas agreed.

  He has definitely started to become more like his old self. The changes that were worrying Jeanne-Marie have disappeared. Gone is the furtiveness. Once again they are walking and talking as they used to do and sitting in her salon reading their separate books. And when the time comes, they take their bath and then they make love. Sunday is a day deliciously drawn out. Everything is as it was and should be.

  Occasionally, he does have a new, odd scent. It must come from walking too far or too fast. It gives her pleasure to scrub it off with the sponge.

  ——

  Thomas knows it is wrong to feel overly pleased with himself, but he has to smile. Monday morning to Saturday evening is as dull and disappointing as it ever was, what with his hours selling bolts of fabric or tutoring boys who have no interest in lessons at all. But from Saturday evening to late Sunday night, his life is as good as it gets. First, it’s Monique with all her mysterious lotions and ways. Then La Beaumont, a sweet woman he likes – no probably loves. The fact that it’s only four weeks until he and Jeanne-Marie are to wed adds an extra layer of pleasure to the arrangement. It is a feasting table that must be savoured before the foods can no longer be enjoyed. For once the ceremony has been performed, Thomas has vowed before his mirror, he will stop seeing Mademoiselle. He has not shared that with Monique, but he is confident she will understand. She would not want to cheat on her best friend after the marriage. But until then Thomas gets to savour the best of two worlds.

  ——

  It is down to three weeks and there is still so much that remains to be discussed and decided. Where they see each other only once a week, Sunday already has too much packed into it. Something has to change, and Jeanne-Marie has decided what it is. She and Thomas will have to start getting together on Saturdays as well. As soon as he can leave the shop he will have to march to her place. There are important shared decisions they have to make.

  “Thomas?” she says, as carefully as she can.

  “Yes.”

  He does not even glance her way, which she supposes means he is especially relaxed. He is enjoying his evening chocolate while he reads a book about different diseases, their conditions and treatments. She does not understand some of his interests, but then they are not hers but his.

  “I’ve been thinking …”

  “Yes.” He looks up and over to where she is pretending to read a book, but is unable to because her thoughts are els
ewhere.

  “I think it is time to decide who we want there. At our wedding, I mean.”

  An odd expression comes upon his face. She wonders if it is him fighting to not roll his eyes. She understands he does not take the same interest in the wedding details, but he has no choice about that.

  “Yes,” says Jeanne-Marie, more forcefully than before. “I know it is a second marriage for each of us, but it is still a celebration, is it not?”

  “Of course it is.”

  Jeanne-Marie’s heart lifts to see Thomas set down his chocolate, close his book and get up. He comes directly over to her and pulls the ottoman close to her chair. He sits and takes hold of her hands.

  “Your interest in this pleases me, husband-to-be.”

  “That is good. Now, you tell me, Madame Tyrell-to-be, who do you want to attend?”

  “Our friends. I would like them there and to sign the registry as witnesses.”

  “Do you have a list?”

  “Not yet, but they are not numerous, are they? Neither of us has any family, but I have a small circle of friends, women you have not yet met.”

  “Invite them all,” Thomas says. His eyes are as happy as his grin.

  “All right, I shall. And as for you, there’s John Cleland, I guess.”

  “No, he is off to India.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s true. Who else?”

  “The bookshop couple and their boy, your godson.”

  Thomas’s smile falters for an instant but then recovers itself. “Of course,” he says. “I will speak with Jean.”

  “The only other person I can think of is Mademoiselle de Vins.”

  Thomas’s face seems to stretch before Jeanne-Marie’s eyes. Nonetheless, Madame continues on.

  “Our friendship has grown a little chilly, but still, I think she— What is it, Thomas? Why that face? Why are you standing up?”

  “I . . I am not sure about the perfume lady.” His stride is quick, toward the window then toward the door. He is pacing fast. “You … you told me she was rude. Not happy to hear we are to wed.”

  “She was, but I’m sure she will be over that. Sit, please.”

  Thomas does as he is asked, but his previous good mood has passed. “Well, at least think about it, Jeanne-Marie. My strong opinion is that I think it would be best if Mademoiselle were not there.” He is back on his feet.

  “Thomas, I—”

  “No.” He holds up both hands. “She is your friend, but I … I.… That’s enough. I’ve said my piece.”

  Jeanne-Marie is speechless as she watches Thomas head back to his chair and his book. She had no idea he felt so strongly about poor Monique. He is making it difficult for her to invite Mademoiselle to the ceremony, isn’t he?

  The air is crisp as Thomas strides back to his place. It is the right kind of evening to think straight.

  Was he too forceful a few hours ago in objecting to Monique being invited to the wedding ceremony? Did he somehow tip his hand that he and perfumist might be involved?

  No, Thomas thinks not. He made it about the strained friendship between the two women, nothing but that. He is safe, and should be for a while. But he still has to figure out how and when to tell Monique that their clandestine intimacy has to end. Where before he assumed she would take it in stride, now he is no longer so sure. No one likes to lose what they know and enjoy.

  He flaps his arms to warm up. It’s unseasonably cold for a spring night, is it not?

  It is. Too cold for any answers to descend. Or is it rise up? Whatever direction they come from, he’ll have to sort out what to do with Mademoiselle another time. He still has three weeks.

  But his looming wife has asked to see him Saturdays too, and he has agreed. So he’ll have to explain that to the perfumist as well and ask for a different evening of her week.

  Thomas shakes his head as he sees his building ahead. A part of him will not be sorry to put an end to the current double life. It’s getting more complicated than it’s worth.

  ——

  There she is, dear Monique. Jeanne-Marie had hoped to catch her old friend walking in Green Park, just the way the two of them used to do before Thomas came into her life. Because a conversation face to face is better than any letter sent through the post. And there, as Madame hoped, there she is.

  Mademoiselle is crossing the small wooden bridge not thirty yards away. How odd that she looks to be walking with footsteps so very heavy. In fact, her usually erect posture is not there. She looks weighed down.

  Jeanne-Marie purses her lips. What she has to say to her friend will not likely lift her mood. But there is nothing Jeanne-Marie can do about that. Her obligation has to be to the man who will be her husband in eight days’ time. All Jeanne-Marie hopes is that her friend of several years will understand. She goes over yet again the little white lie she has rehearsed for days. The ceremony will be private and quick. There will be no one with Thomas and Jeanne-Marie but the priest, and the beadle and a deacon, she supposes, to sign as witnesses.

  “Mademoiselle de Vins!” she calls out. “I am over here.”

  Monique looks up and finds her, but does not wave back. Nor does she smile. Nor does she hurry her steps. In fact, it looks like she is slowing down. Something is definitely wrong. Jeanne-Marie hurries to meet her sorrowful friend.

  “Monique, are you all right?”

  Mademoiselle nods. “I suppose I am.” Her voice is monotone.

  “No, I can see you are not. Tell me, friend, what is wrong?” Jeanne-Marie starts to give her an embrace. “Is there something I can do?”

  Mademoiselle pushes her back. Then her eyes go wide as she laughs. It is not a friendly laugh. It is more like a raven’s caw.

  “Something you can do? You, you are the cause.”

  Jeanne-Marie blinks and blinks. “Me? What are you talking about?”

  Monique stares at her, seeming to study Madame’s eyes and face and then her entirety from head to foot.

  “No, maybe you don’t. Imagine that, you are the last to know.”

  “Know what? Please, Monique, tell me what is wrong?”

  Again Jeanne-Marie tries to touch the sleeve of her friend’s pale blue muslin dress. Monique does not intercept it, but she stares at the hand like it could be a snake. The hand recoils to the safety of Jeanne’s own waist.

  “Maybe you should ask him,” blurts Monique. Gone is her pretty face. The chin is out, the eyes are a full dare.

  “Him? Who is him?”

  Mademoiselle shakes her head and sends her a smile, but it is not the smile of any friend. It is one of contempt. Then Monique turns and shows Madame her back. She begins to walk back the way she came.

  “Monique!” pleads Jeanne-Marie.

  The woman halts. Over her shoulder, with raised eyebrows that Jeanne-Marie can plainly see, she says, “I think you should wake up, my friend. You are wearing horns.”

  “Wearing horns?” mumbles Jeanne-Marie.

  It is her chest that first figures it out. It tries to summon a great breath, but is denied. She feels the warmth flush from her face, a chill that spreads on down. Jeanne-Marie turns on her heels, her ears filled with a roaring sound.

  ——

  Thomas cannot put a finger on what it is, but there is something wrong. Madame de Beaumont is not herself. She seems formal with him, even a little cold. It is like she is going through the motions of a play and not really feeling the part. It shows in her conversation, which is strained at best. Then there is what looks like tightness around her eyes and on her lips.

  With only six days until their marriage ceremony on Friday, Thomas thought Jeanne-Marie would be in an even better mood than the pleased state she has been in leading up to where they now are. She does not know it, of course, but he gave Monique the news, which is how and why he i
s here in Madame’s apartment on a Saturday. To say the least, Monique was not pleased, but that is a story he cannot share, water under the bridge as the saying goes. What matters now is only Jeanne-Marie, and something is bothering her. It must be nervousness concerning the step they are soon to take. Yes, that must be it.

  And somehow or other, the mood she is in must be why she has insisted he be the first to get in the bath, instead of her as it has always been. About that, Thomas will not complain. He likes being in the wooden tub with the warmed water up to the middle of his chest when there is no skim, none at all. He will not lather too much with the soap and sponge, so it will not be too milky for Madame when it is her turn.

  “What is it, my Beaumont?” he says. “You look like something is bothering you. Are you all right?”

  “No, not really.”

  “And why is that?” Thomas reaches for the sponge. Without soap he starts scrubbing his chest.

  “I know,” she says, barely aloud.

  Thomas turns her way. “You’ll have to speak up. Did you say ’I know’?”

  “I did.”

  “And what is it that you know? Look, the fire needs another log, I think. Would you?” He settles back, closing his eyes.

  “Are you relaxed?” Thomas hears her ask.

  Thomas smiles. “I am.” Then he opens his eyes and sits upright. “The fire, Jeanne-Marie, it needs a log or two. To keep the air and water warm for you. Was there something you wanted to say?” He tilts his head at a quizzical angle. He shows her a face she can trust, a face she can tell whatever it is that is bothering her.

  “A true heart,” she says. “That was what I wanted.”

  Thomas squints at that. “Please do not play the sphinx. I am your husband after all.”

  Madame leans back and takes in a long breath. Thomas sees her shake her head as her lips curl. “Not yet,” she says.

  “No, but … Jeanne-Marie, are you ill?”

  Thomas grabs hold of the tub’s two sides and lifts himself to his feet. “Pass me the towel, would you please?” He does not know why, but he covers his groin with his hands. “I’ll stoke the fire and you can get in. I’ll help you out of your clothes.”